Doctor Watson's Case
by moorskiko
Summary: Watson looked at it, this great monstrosity of darkness, of anger, of hatred, of rot and pestilence. Its gaping maw dripped with blood and hair and flesh. He could hear Holmes sobbing behind him, begging him to make it stop. The good doctor could only fall to his knees and embrace his friend, whispering words of love and comfort, waiting for that beast to consume them all.
1. Chapter One: Where the Tea is Forgotten

**Doctor Watson's Case**

**Chapter One: Where the Tea is Forgotten**

Of the many cases I have attended with my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, never have these cases been mine. What I mean by this is simply that these cases, which I have written about and published in the last couple of years, have always been cases Holmes had happily taken up and solved with his own wit, logic and steely courage. I have never considered myself a man of such characteristics, though my colleague would disagree, and never did I consider taking up my own cases to solve. I left these puzzles to Holmes, for it not only fueled his great mind, but it also kept him away from his precious cocaine a little bit longer and, to my embarrassment, allowed me to spend some time with him away from our comfortable Baker Street sitting room.

However, only once did I take up a case, and it out of compassion rather than interest. It was this very compassion that saved not only my life, but also that of my dearest friend. I will not say this case was a success, though, for my client is not alive to read its publication. Nor should they be, for it is not to be released until one hundred years after my death. Released, of course, to a generation of readers who may be a little more open minded to the controversies that surround the whimsical, the outrageous...

The fantastical.

The case started as most cases do, with the introduction of a client. Holmes and I were spending a quiet evening alone in our Baker Street sitting room. I was lounging about in my armchair, a little frustrated with my current circumstances. Moments earlier I had attempted to light a ship, with the intention of smoking, only to have Holmes snatch my cigarette and lighter out of my hand and scold me for my carelessness. The reason for this was that his burner was not working. Suspecting a leak, Holmes decided he wasn't going to have me destroy our flat due to a gas explosion. Tucking the cigarette between his lips, he flounced off to fix his burner, tinkering away while I attempted to read the latest _Times. _

I say attempted, for much of my reading was colored by huffs and sighs of annoyance. Holmes, of course, ignored me, my cigarette waggling away between his lips while he worked. The man, when he chose to, had the patience of a saint. My tantrum was not going to break him so, with a final sigh, I admitted defeat and perused the agony columns of the paper. I hardly noted when my friend stopped working, so engrossed had I become with the strange ads found in columns. It was only when my cigarette reappeared, dangling near my face, did I actually look up.

"Watson," Holmes muttered around the cigarette, "We have a case."

I blinked, a little surprised, "Really? So late in the evening?"

Holmes responded by taking the paper from my hands, tossing it aside, and pulling me away from my chair, "Come see for yourself."

He led me over to the window, pulling back the curtain to reveal our darkly lit streets and alleys. I peered into the shadows, finally catching sight of a cab parked a few doors down from 221b. I watched a young face peek out from the cab, looking about suspiciously. I felt Holmes press against my back, looking over my shoulder at that cab. I would have found this action strange, for the celebrated Sherlock Holmes did not lean against anyone, both emotionally and physically. But recently, Holmes had taken to making physical contact with me. I suspected he was finally becoming comfortable with my person, so I thought little of it, if anything, I rejoiced in his acceptance of our friendship. I pushed back just a little, indicating my comfort with our current position. We both stared at the cab for a moment, questions swirling about my mind while in Holmes, the answers took form with ease.

"He will be in our rooms in a few minutes... Might as well open the windows to let out the excess gas..." Holmes murmured, pulling the cigarette out between his lips and pressing it into my hand, "Here, Watson. You'll be able to smoke in a few minutes..."

We opened the windows, allowing the spring breeze to sweep out the small, but still dangerous, amounts of as Holmes had allowed to seep through the leak – in order to actually find it, according to him – into our rooms. The curtains were pulled back over the windows, allowing the client to believe that we were unaware of his impeding visit. The bell rang moments later, the client thundering up the stairs with our started landlady, Mrs. Hudson, trailing behind him.

"Mr. Holmes!" she cried, "I told him that you did not take clients at these hours, but he insisted-,"

"It is alright, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes reassured her with a smile, "My door is always open to clients," he led the woman back out to the landing, "Some tea-,"

"Mr. Holmes, you will have to get your tea yourself. I must-," she started to protest, such a feisty woman Mrs. Hudson could be.

Without hesitation, Holmes turned to me, raising an expectant eyebrow. Mrs. Hudson, as Holmes had learned quickly, had a soft spot for me. It had nothing to do with my patient, kind manner, though that did play a small role. It had to do with my smile and eyes, though Holmes would never fully explain why. He became quite frustrated when I had pressed for more detail, so much so that he actually locked himself away in his room for a while. This quality Holmes had learned to take advantage of, for it made Mrs. Hudson – as well as past clients – cave to his petty wants.

Such as, at this moment, some late night tea. Giving Holmes an ugly look, for I did not like taking advantage of our good landlady in such a manner, I took his place, leading Mrs. Hudson away from the sitting room.

"I am terribly sorry for this, Mrs. Hudson," I said, gently taking her hand in mine, "I am in full agreement that clients should not come this late... It causes me to miss dinner at times. Holmes can be so stubborn, though."

Mrs. Hudson eyed me, "He's doing it again, isn't he? He's using you to get me to bring you boys some tea."

I grimaced, "No... Not really..." I protested lamely, hoping that my guilty pout would win her over.

The old woman gave me a stern look, only for it to melt away into a teasing scowl, "Oh, alright Doctor Watson. I will prepare your tea. But you must bring it up yourself, no exceptions."

Grinning, I pressed a kiss against her little hand, "Thank you! I am sure our client would appreciate it."

"Hmph, I hardly care about him," her cheeks glowed, but she hastily took her hand back and bustled back downstairs to make tea.

My mission complete, I re-entered the sitting room. Holmes was already seated, filling his pipe with tobacco. The client had taken the settee, hunched over and wringing his hands. I raised an eyebrow at this, only to have Holmes dismiss me with sniff. I took a position over by the window, indulging in the spring breeze still entering our normally stuffy rooms. The soft hiss of a match being lit indicated that Holmes was ready and I turned, twirling my now crumpled cigarette in my hands.

"I have assured our client, Watson, that he can speak freely in our presence, and that none of the information he shares with us will be made public," Holmes started, pausing only once to take a long drag from his pipe.

My response was a simple nod. Our client lifted his head, giving me a suspicious look, only to turn and face Holmes fully. In that brief exchange, I noted that he was a fairly young man, but it seems something had worried away his charming face. His bright blue eyes should have glittered with life, but they were shadowed over with deep fear. His frown seemed endless, not a scrap of mirth brightening his features. He continued to slump on the settee, his large hands nervously touching anything they could. One moment he was scratching his cheek, he next fiddling with his tie, then picking at a spot on his suit. He seemed to be gathering courage to speak, his eyes darting every now and then to the floor.

"My... My story... In a bit unique and... In short... Truly embarrassing..." he murmured, swallowing every now and then, "Please understand that this is... Shameful... Absolutely shameful..."

Holmes inclined his head, "It is quite alright. We have dealt with several delicate cases in the past... I think, should you need a little push, we should start at the beginning."

The young man gave a shaky sigh, "Right... Right, the beginning... Well, my name is James Pierce. I am not a native English man, I am originally from America. I grew up in a semi-wealthy family, and through my family I was able to come and live in London. I became engaged about... Two years back... My fiance, Cynthia Wright, whom I met during my university days, was a charming young woman..." he paused, struggling with his story, "I must confess... I thought everything was alright between us. We moved to London last November, with the intent of getting married in March... I am a shop keeper, you see. Money was a bit tight and I had hoped to extend our engagement in order to save up some funds... London can be quite expensive and well-," he broke off, glancing at me with sudden nostalgia that made my stomach turn.

"I so loved her. She was beautiful, kind, and so understanding... But somehow, moving to London changed her. There are different men here, much more charming than myself and well... It's exotic, you see, exotic to hear the British accent and to have my gentlemen friends visit me... I..."

I knew exactly where he was going from there. The girl had left Mr. Pierce for another man, maybe even shared an intimate night with that stranger during her engagement. Those blues eyes swam with tears and the man broke down, burying his young face into his hands. Holmes turned his gaze away, puffing away at his pipe in a bored manner. I knew my friend held little sympathy towards human emotion, his thoughts were occupied in the matters of the mind, not the heart. I, on the other hand, did not flush at the sight of a grown man crying. I abandoned my post at the window and fixed him a strong brandy from our liquor cabinet.

Handing the drink over, I pretended that I did not see him sobbing into the glass, moving back to the window and shakily lighting my crumpled cigarette. I immediately regretted this decision to calm my nerves. I could taste the tea and tobacco Holmes had indulged in earlier and almost spat out the ship. I quickly turned and threw open the curtain, masking my disgusted face with the intention of giving the man a little privacy.

The young man, after a few minutes, calmed himself and continued, "She... She left me... F-for some navy man she had m-met at the docks... It was through a m-mutual acquaintance that I found out. We had a terrible row. I kicked her out, broke out engagement, and began making plans to return to America.

As I began to pack my bags, my maid came to my rooms, begging me to cease my plans. I, of course, had no intention of lingering any longer. I had been betrayed and shamed by the woman I once loved. But she persisted, so I allowed my maid to make her case. According to some gossip, my now ex-fiance had fallen into a dangerous fever, spurred no doubt by heartbreak and guilt. The maid begged that I go see her, for the girl was calling me by name and wanted desperately to see me before she expired," his voice grew a little bit stronger, his gaze turning away from me and focusing back on Holmes.

"... You went to her?" Holmes inquired, almost out of habit than sincere curiosity.

Pierce nodded, "Yes... Oh, yes. I went to her. She was on her deathbed, Mr. Holmes. Pale as a sheet. She had cried and cried until her eyes had swollen shut and... Oh, Mr. Holmes, I held her hand. She asked for my forgiveness, for she had destroyed something so beautiful between us. I, of course, told her she was forgiven, for it was her last request. I left her that night, with the intention of never returning to this wretched city again."

"And yet, you are here," Holmes refilled his pipe, "What has changed? Why did you decide to stay?"

The man swallowed, then croaked, "She has gone missing, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, now truly intrigued by the case. The young man got up, walking over to the mantle and setting his drink down. He looked over at me again, this time his blue eyes sweeping my form, before turning back to Holmes. For some reason, I felt that he was assessing our reactions, rather than showing anxiety at the current situation.

"Explain," Holmes whispered, a bite to his voice.

The client began to pace the room, a pondering expression on his face, "That's the thing, Mr. Holmes. I cannot explain. The maid was sure the girl would die that evening, so poor was her state of health and mind. I expected to get the news the next day. However, instead of a message, my maid appeared again. She was in tears, telling me that the girl had disappeared. We suspected it was all a show, that she was going to get eloped after that scene, but even the naval man wanted nothing to do with her in the end. We tracked him down, but he was quite ah... Engaged with the local bawd," he seemed embarrassed by this coloring his pale cheeks.

I looked over at Holmes, but my friend's sharp gaze did not waver from the client, "Surely this a relief to you, rather than a concern?"

Pierce gaped, "My fiance is missing, Mr. Holmes! I promise you, she cuckolded me during our engagement! I thought she would be with her lover, but upon further investigation, she is not. She has not been with him for weeks! I am worried, Mr. Holmes!" the man wailed, throwing his hands up in despair, "She may have returned to her family in America! Or moved on to another lover!"

"Then it hardly matters," Holmes answered coolly, "She is gone. The engagement is broken. You are free to find another potential wife."

The man opened his mouth to speak, only to shut it quickly. He seemed to struggle again with his speech, looking at me for support. I busied myself with filling another cup of brandy, and sorting through the different liquors we had.

"What if she has destroyed herself?!" the young man blurted out.

The horrid thought caught both of us off guard. I dropped the glass, hearing it crack against the shelf. Holmes, on the other hand, had gone very still, his teeth gripping the stem of his pipe. The young man seemed pleased with himself, milking the horrid prospect.

"I broke the engagement, Mr. Holmes. Surely it caused some distress in her. She might be lying in some alley, suffering from that fever, wanting more than anything to destroy herself. She is not sane, not if she's running about with all these men. Surely you must understand my desperation to find out where she has gone!"

Holmes looked over at me, a stream of smoke coming from his nostrils. I gave him a pleading look. The concerns of this young man were terrible and I found myself worrying over his fiance's well-being. Holmes gave another sigh, this time smoke billowing from his mouth. Turning back to Pierce, Holmes nodded.

"Very well. I will take on this case, if only to verify that your fiance is not dead," he said this line coldly, causing some horror in me, "Leave your address with Watson, we will contact you if we discover something."

The young man hurriedly produced his calling card, thrusting it into my hand, "Thank you, sir! Truly!" he then pivoted on his heel, exiting our rooms without a single goodbye.

I stood, staring at the doorway, wondering what just happened. Hearing Holmes sigh again, I looked over at him, raising the card questioningly. Holmes stood, snatching the card from and looking over, only to toss it into our unlit fireplace.

"Holmes!" I cried, staring at the pristine white card sink into the ash pile, "What the hell was that all about?"

"He is a liar, Watson. Plain and simple," Holmes replied, sitting down again, "Surely you noticed?"

Bending to retrieve the card, I answered, "No, I did not. Please, enlighten me."

"Hm... I knew the minute he seated himself that he was not going to be honest with us. His acting skills are quite poor. The wringing of his hands, he was attempting to convey anxiety. But he overdid it by performing a nervous tick, this being he constant touching of his person with his hands. It seems he had performed that speech of his, especially the fiance bit, minutes before meeting us. That is why his words are well chosen, but he forgot to mention the most important parts relevant to any case." Holmes paused, giving me an expectant look.

I allowed my fingers to now just brush the edge of the card, "... Dates... Time... Locations?"

"Precisely. Note that he never mentioned the university he attended, or which city he met his fiance. He did not mentioned were he lived, why it was chosen, nor the name of his shop. Mr. Pierce did not tell us what he sold! Never did he mention going to search for his fiance, nor did he mention the places where he checked for her," Holmes grinned, "And, wouldn't you remember the name of the man who stole your fiance from you?"

I nodded, "Why yes, if only to enact revenge."

Holmes chuckled at that, "Be careful, Watson. Your bullpup is showing..." he sighed and went over to the window, taking a long look at the night cloaked street, "... Honestly, Watson, what man chases after a cuckolding fiance?" Holmes began to scrape away at the bowl of his pipe, the burnt tobacco scattering in the wind.

"But... He threatened that the fiance-"

"Would destroy herself? No, Watson. He was attempting to scare us into agreeing with him. To take up his case, in order to at least save a life."

"Does this mean you are not taking the case?" I inquired.

"On the contrary. I will be taking it, if only to find out the whereabouts of this fiance... And maybe why he wants to locate her so desperately."

A moment of silence fell over us, with me pondering this strange, new case while Holmes began to prepare for the next day's investigation. I did not notice when he came over to me, gently resting his hand on my shoulder and shaking me out of my distracting thoughts.

"... Maybe he truly does love her, but is ashamed to admit that he wants her back?" I offered, looking up at him.

Holmes sneered at that, "Oh, Watson. Dabbling in the matters of the heart is not my strong suit... I suppose I'll leave that part up for you to wrangle with..." he expression changed into that of almost tenderness, but he suddenly turned away and entered his rooms.

I wondered if he was pitying my slow deduction skills. With that frustrating thought in mind, I too turned in for the evening, only to realize that we had completely forgotten about the tea Mrs. Hudson left us downstairs. With a sigh, I went to the kitchen and disposed of the now cold brew. Nibbling on a biscuit, I took one more peek out the window, if only to indulge in the beauty of the evening. My eyes roamed from the lat night street walkers to the urchin napping on a set of stairs. Suddenly, at the corner of my eye, I caught sight of movement. Following it, my eyes locked onto a horrible form standing in an alley.

A huge dog was watching me, its acidic green eyes bright in the darkness. Upon seeing the animal, I felt a throb at the back of my head and laughter, horrible, cruel, malicious laughter reverberated in my head. I gasped, my stomach somersaulting, my heart shrinking in fear. I blinked once and the creature vanished, a vagabond rooting through a pile of garbage replacing it. The laughter cut short, as if choked out. Unnerved, I turned away from the window and hurried back upstairs. Entering my room, I played off the moment as just an exhausted hallucination, nothing that couldn't be fixed with a good night's rest.

Comforted, I turned in for the night.


	2. Chapter Two: Alley Walks

**Chapter Two: Alley Walks Full of Surprises**

The next day I was awoken by a knock on my bedroom door. Puzzled by the politeness of the action, I dragged myself out of my bed and meandered over. Pulling the door open, a very excited Holmes stepped into my bedroom, waving his pipe and several papers about wildly.

"I knew it! Our client truly is a dishonest man. Come, Watson, come see that latest report from Bart's,"

With a yawn, I slipped back into my bed, leaning against the headboard as Holmes took a seat at my side. He splayed out the paperwork over my legs, chattering away about his late night discovery.

"I went ahead and contacted Lestrade about this case. He informed me that no missing person report had been turned in to him in the last two weeks. He was kind enough to let me root through Bart's incoming patients logs. You'd be surprised at how many people are admitted to the wards every day, Watson," Holmes flipped open one of the folders, pushing aside a couple of reports before shoving the intended one into my hand, "Read that, Watson."

Rubbing away the remnants of my lethargy, I went ahead and read the log. A young woman, by the name of Cynthia Wright, had been admitted to the Ward in order to be treated for severe hysteria. According to the date of admittance, the girl had been residing in the Ward for the past week now. I had to reread the log several times, unable to grasp the gravity of the information given to me. Slowly, I set the paper down and gapped at my friend, my mind finally absorbing the terrifying news.

"He had her admitted to Bart's?" I exclaimed.

Holmes nodded, taking up the log and re-scanning it, "Unfortunately, the record keeping is quite lacking. I am unable to deduce whether it was our client who admitted the girl, or if another did so. If that is the case, the amount of suspects increases. However, there is a discharge date, but someone took pains to keep the responsible party a secret..." here he trailed off, giving me an expectant look.

"Don't... Don't tell me the girl is back out on the streets?!" I cried, giving my friend a terrified look.

Holmes nodded, "Correct. Now," Holmes got up, collecting his papers and gently tapping me on the shoulder, "Get dressed. We have an interview to conduct."

The next moment, Holmes and I were dashing through the rank alleys of the London docks. The community within the alleys is much different then those who populate the city streets. Vagabonds slide against the walls, grunting for a spare cigarette or even a couple of coins. Prostitutes take refuge in the shadows, crooning at passerby's, hoping to hook onto at least one man's wallet for the night. Street urchins root through garbage, always listening for some tidbit of information, ready to sell it to some blackmailer for the right price. Fortunately for us, it was too early in the morning for this community to be up and about. Just glancing about, I noted that the side alley doors were locked shut and the homeless snoozed in nests of rags. Even the rats slept in, not a squeak or scurry sounding through the trash heaps.

Holmes led me through the maze of secret alleys and passages, his eyes darting from one corner to another. He paused only briefly to step back out into the street, as if to orient himself, only to dash back and turn a corner. After about a mile, and to my relief, he stopped. While I was still a young man, I was not the army lad of my early days. Lack of training made my form lax and I found myself bracing against the alley wall, panting heavily and clutching my aching war wound. Holmes shot me a look, surprisingly one of concern, and feigned investigating the alley, for I suspected that his true intention was to give me a rest. Once my panting had subsided, Holmes reached out, lacing his fingers around mine and dragging me forward.

"It is not Bart's, as you may have noted," Holmes explained, "But, I think multiple stories of the account may aid in the investigation."

I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in confusion, "Multiple stories? I thought such things muddled the truth?"

"When you have a liar, it's best to track down the lie to its source," Holmes quipped, stepping back out into the street and surveying the environment.

Outside of startling a mongrel napping on the dock, not a living soul walked about in the early morning. In the distance I could see a couple of small fishing boats, but Holmes hardly noticed. His sharp eyes were locked on a single door a few houses down. He squeezed my hand, as if attempting to convey some secret message.

"What is it?" I murmured, following his gaze and staring at the plain door.

Holmes hissed, "Recall that our client insisted Miss Wright cuckolded him with a naval man."

I nodded, "You said that he was lying, for he did not mention the man's name."

"Well, I now have a name," Holmes responded, making his way to the door.

I gasped, "So the girl did-!"

"I did not say that, Watson. I merely said I had a name. Please, apply my methods, and further, understand that speculation is for romantic fools."

His biting tone meant that our conversation had ended. Stung by my friend's insult, I allowed myself to lapse into the uncomfortable silence. Holmes had a hard personality to deal with, and even with my patience and understanding, he still managed to get under my skin at certain points in our adventures.

It was a good sign that he had not released my hand in disgust, but held it gently in his, regardless of the awkwardness his chastisement had caused. Leading me over to that door, Holmes gave it a swift knock, releasing my hand and choosing to touch my sleeve instead. We waited only for a moment, before a series of tentative footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Slowly, the lock clicked and the door was pulled open, a young woman revealing herself in the dim sunlight. I heard Holmes make a soft noise of surprise and startled, I turned to give him a look of complete confusion.

"C-Can... Can I help you?" the girl murmured, twisting a bit of her apron in her hands.

Holmes did not respond, his grey eyes scanning the girl up and down, narrowing as his deductions flickered about in his head. He even took a moment to glance behind him, as if searching for the explanation in the alley. Unnerved, the girl made as if to step back and close the door, but I reached out, hoping to brush off this awkward moment.

"I am very sorry, Miss," I croaked, throwing my friend another confused look, "Pardon our intrusion but, we are investigating a matter about a missing woman."

Her brown eyes blew wide, "Oh... Oh..." she swallowed, "I... I don't know anything about-,"

"You are Cynthia Wright," Holmes finally spoke, giving the girl a strange look.

I confess that this announcement sent me reeling. Unaware of my rudeness, I turned my gaze to the girl and ogled her, taking in the sight of the woman who should, as of yet, not have been found. It is rare, in any investigation, for one to stumble upon the missing persons hours after their disappearance had been reported upon. Holmes would later admit that he had not anticipated meeting the girl so early into the investigation, but then again, this case would not follow the trend of our more tame, yet still quite unique and mind-boggling ones.

"Yes," the woman whispered, responding to his expression more than the statement, "Yes, I am Cynthia Wright."

Holmes made as if to reach out to her, only to suddenly clasp a hand around my shoulder and smile, "My dear Miss Wright, how rude of me.. My name is Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective, and this is my companion, Doctor John Watson. As you have been informed, we are searching for a missing woman and desire any information you have on the matter..." he trailed off, giving me my cue to put in my own charm.

I smiled, warmly and boyishly as I could to her, "May we come in?"

The girl eyed us, before shakily pulling the door completely open and silently allowing us entrance into her home. We acted as politely and charmingly as possible, removing our hats and immediately complimenting her home. She didn't seem to be affected by our attitudes, choosing to lead us into the sitting room without uttering a single thank you. While young women were expected to be meek and reserved in our time, her attitude was more cold than customary. I attempted to voice this to Holmes, but was silenced by a sharp look. Removing our coats, we took our seats in the sitting room and Holmes waved me on. I began to chatter about mundane things, allowing Holmes the opportunity to look about him and begin building his case. The girl gave me a shy smile, nodding at some of my small talk, but busied herself with preparing some tea and biscuits. Once we were all settled, I allowed my chatter to die away, excusing my silence by sipping at the warm brew.

"I am surprised that you know how to prepare tea, Miss Wright," Holmes spoke, watching me happily bite into a biscuit, "A friend informed me that the preparation of tea is not very common in America."

The girl shook her head, "It hardly matters. If one chooses to live in another country, one must become knowledgeable in the country's customs."

Holmes cocked his head at that, "I see... But then, why do you choose to dress in such a plain manner?"

Abandoning my biscuit, I turned to investigate what Holmes was talking about. Miss Wright was pretty enough, though her eyes seemed darkened by lack of sleep. Her dark hair was pulled back into a messy bun, as if done in haste. On the matter of her dress, the young woman had chosen to wear a simple grey dress with a white apron laid over it. Strangely enough, she wore long sleeves, even with the muggy weather. If our client hadn't lied about his position as a store owner, the girl should have been dressed in finer clothing that revealed her class.

To my amazement, the girl did not flush in embarrassment for having neglected this detail. Her eyes darted to the door for a second, then rested on Holmes easily, unflinchingly. I watched Holmes shift, as if discomforted by her stare, but he seemed to try and push past the moment, reaching into his pocket and fiddling with his pipe. There was something about her, the tense air that surrounded her, that made us all a bit uncomfortable.

"As you may have been informed, I am no longer engaged with Mr. Pierce, so I truly have no position outside of being a whore," the girl spat.

I choked on my tea at that. Never in my life had I hear a young woman swear in such a manner, least of all in describing herself! Glancing a Holmes, I was surprised to see him smirking at her response. He was not in any way alarmed by her gross manner, choosing instead to present his pipe to her.

"May I smoke?"

Miss Wright nodded, but said no more. Holmes took several minutes preparing his pipe, smoking minutes more before speaking again.

"Why would you address yourself in such a manner?" Holmes asked, plumes of smoke billowing out from his mouth.

The girl watched the smoke, her brow furrowing, "Is that not what I am?"

"To who?" Holmes responded, circling the question back around.

The girl did not answer, choosing instead to lapse into more silence. Unnerved, I tried to take another sip of my tea, only to find that I had finished it. Before I could do anything, I felt a pair of soft hand encircle my own, gently taking the tea cup away and refilling it. Miss Wright silently handed my now full cup back, setting another biscuit in my plate for good measure. She gave me a sweet smile in response to my thank you, causing my stomach to knot up in a pleasantly familiar manner. Maybe she wasn't as cold as I initially perceived.

Fueled with confidence, Miss Wright spoke, "Mr. Pierce has been searching for me."

"Correct," Holmes responded.

"He has spoken to you of my actions. How I fell in love with a navy man. How our engagement has been broken. How I may be a danger to myself and others?"

"Correct."

The girl gritted her teeth, tears welling up in her eyes, "He is lying," she hissed.

Holmes smirked, "Correct."

Miss Wright and myself turned to Holmes, the girl startled by his response, while I hopeful that he would explain his current deductions on the matter. He seemed pleased with our responses, taking a moment to refill his pipe before explaining.

"Through records I have found out that you were admitted into Bart's last week by an unknown person. You were, however, formally discharged, but by an unknown person. Since it was done under your ex-fiance's nose, he has no idea who did it, or where you have disappeared to. He wishes to know your location, but you are taking great pains to keep yourself hidden. I took on the case, not to reveal your location, but to find out why he is seeking you so desperately and, of course, why you wish to keep your location a secret..."

She smiled at that, "So, you want to hear my story?"

"Most definitely."

Miss Wright seemed to relax at that, leaning back into her chair and finally taking a sip of her own tea. She seemed to be pondering this turn of events, giving us both hard stare. Seemingly assured that she could trust Holmes, the young woman set her cup down. She sat up straighter, pressing out the wrinkles of her apron before beginning.

"You already know that James and I were engaged, moving to London in order to celebrate our upcoming wedding... I will not bother you with the details of our courtship, it is not important to the matter at hand... Upon moving to London, James opened up a small haberdashery, close to the women's shop in the northern part of the city. With the small pay he received, as well as the funds we saved up, we lived a comfortable life, sharing rooms in a flat above the shop... We lived peacefully for a few months..." she trailed off, her gaze flickering over to the hallway.

Holmes leaned forward, "When did it all go wrong?"

"He... He began to spend a great deal of time with some new companions... I sometimes wouldn't see him until late in the evening," she sighed, "He did not reek of drink, but was quite morose when he returned from those late-night outings."

"Do you know where he was going?"

Miss Wright shook her head, "No. He never told me, no matter how many times I asked. He brought only one of his companions to visit, but even then, they only stayed for a few minutes, before leaving again... I figured... I figured he was visiting a club of some sorts..."

Holmes' eyes sparkled at this new information, his spindly fingers pressing together in a pensive manner, "Tell me about this companion."

"Oh... Well... He was a bit older than James. Very quiet. He greeted me well enough, said his name was Franklin White. When I inquired about their activities, he only said that they were visiting an acquaintance. The man had some news to share with them, very interesting news..."

"Alright... Did anything change after this meeting?"

The girl sighed, "That's the strange thing, Mr. Holmes. At first, I was worried about my fiances increasingly sobering disposition. I feared that he was home sick, or becoming increasingly desperate to support us... But after meeting Mr. White... He suddenly seemed to perk up."

"Explain," Holmes pushed.

"He was... Very eccentric. James ran about the house, beginning to collect all our sums of money. He explained that it was time to go, to move away from London, there was nothing here for us. He treated me to a fine dinner and I was joyous, for my loving fiance had returned to me... But the next day..." she grew quiet, her eyes flickering to the doorway again, widening with fear.

Startled, I couldn't help but reach out and try to grasp her hand in a reassuring manner. Miss Wright immediately jerked away, as if stung by my touch, but the move was enough to break her stare from the doorway. She quietly apologized by patting my hand, before turning back to Holmes.

"He was excited... Agitated. I have never had James shout at me in the manner that he did. He raved about monsters and demons, how they had caught up with him... How he should have never gone with Mr. White... I thought he had gone quite mad."

Holmes grinned at that, no doubt wanting to respond with a snide comment. However, catching sight of my frown, he passed on the moment and continued listening to the young woman's story.

"He packed up some clothes, forcing me into a cab and told me again and again, 'It's you... You bred it. It's coming.' And... And the next thing I knew..." her voice cracked and I felt a tug at my heart, the girl had broken down into violent sobs.

I speculated the next part. Maddened by whatever information the young man had stumbled upon, he took his fiance to St. Bart's, lying and having her locked up for hysteria. I could imagine the scene, with this young woman fighting and screaming of the injustice and the physicians, convinced that she had gone insane, were easily tricked into taking her in. I felt a spark of anger run through me, how could this young man, who we had met days before, do such a terrible act?

Holmes seemed to be pondering the same question, but did not voice them. Instead, he chose to finish his pipe, allowing it to cool before placing it back into his pocket. Rather pleased with himself, Holmes stood up and began to pace the room. I watched, delighted, as he began to mutter over the case. Normally, when Holmes is at a loss, he can be quite vocal about his frustrations and dead ends. This time, however, it was an excited muttering that sounded from his throat. He kept throwing glances at the young woman, taking in her form, the way she avoided his gaze and chose to stare at the doorway instead, tears still leaking down her cheeks. After a moment, he walked over to me, tugging me to my feet.

"I must ask a favor of you, Watson," he started, "Firstly, do you have your revolver?"

I nodded, reaching down and patting my coat pocket, "Always."

"Good, good... Now, and please do not protest, but I must have you stay here with Miss Wright for the next couple of days."

"What?!" I cried, gaping at my friend, "She is-,"

"Watson!" Holmes snarled, catching sight of the slowly composing woman looking over at us, "Do not protest! I am not asking you to charm the girl, nor squirrel her away to some new location... At least, not yet."

"Not yet?! Holmes, what are you-,"

"Now, make sure to keep her safe, Watson. You are an expert shot and know when to spot danger. Do not, under any circumstance, allow the girl to fall into anyone's hands, save ours. If there are visitors, it will be you who will answer the door, no one else. I will stop by when I can, under disguise of course, but only to update you on the case and give you your next orders..." he trailed off, walking off to grab his coat.

"But Holmes! This is highly inappropriate!" I couldn't help but point out, "A young woman, accused of adultery, residing with a stranger she only met today. Surely that would bring this home under suspicion!"

Holmes chuckled, "Watson, you are not some stranger. You're her cousin, of course. Come on, my dear doctor. Surely some of my acting skills have rubbed off on you," here he reached out, patting my cheek in an almost fatherly manner, "Now, no pouting, my dear fellow. She is a mere child in comparison to us. Don't tell me you cannot handle the whims of a seventeen year old."

"S-Seventeen!" I gasped, looking over at the young girl on the settee.

Holmes responded by squeezing my hand, sweeping over and gently kissing the girl's hand, before rushing out of the house. We both stared after him, wondering what had come over the normally anti-social sleuth. Miss Wright was the first to recover, staring down at her hand in a quizzical manner.

"I did not expect him to have such soft lips," she murmured.

"... I have not had the pleasure of experiencing them, unfortunately," I stupidly responded, flushing in embarrassment when I realized what I had just implied.

Miss Wright only giggled, her gaze now focused on me, rather than the doorway.


	3. Chapter Three: A Naval Man Enters

**Chapter Three: The Naval Man Enters Styx, With No Preamble Of Course**

My first night in Miss Wright's residence was not as trying on my already frayed nerves as I expected. The girl was pleasant enough, clearing away the tea and informing me that she would happily tend to my needs during my stay. I admit I was surprised she did not look upon me with resentment or suspicion; I was, after-all, a complete stranger who was forced to reside in her home. However, she seemed to take the turn of events with ease, as if she has experienced such matters before. She led me upstairs to my temporary quarters, throwing open the curtains to reveal a beautiful view of the docks below. The three boats in the river had multiplied to five and I could see young men already working away, hauling packages and other goods about. At the docks, vendors were setting up shop and woman of all ages and class were eying the prices.

I found myself wanting to excuse my stay, a plethora of excuses running through my head. I had no change of clothes, nor any spare money to send a simple telegraph. Surely Holmes understood that I needed to retrieve my notebook, I had not finished documenting our previous case. And won't Mrs. Hudson ask where I was? Surely, in order to keep this girl's whereabouts a secret, I had to continue as if she didn't exist, living my life as if nothing had changed.

With all these excuses in mind, I turned to voice them to Miss Wright, only to find myself alone in the empty room. She seemed to have assumed that, due to my silence and staring off into the view, that I wanted to be alone. Sighing, I decided to wait out the day, building upon my case to return back to Baker Street when Holmes returned the next morning. With that reassuring thought, I allowed myself to recline on the bed, flipping through the meager notes I had written about this current case.

At about mid-afternoon, I heard some bustling from downstairs. Curious, I descended, entering the kitchen, only to find my young charge slamming a knife forcefully onto a fish head. Scales and blood fleck across her wrists, but she ignored them, cracking the head off and setting it aside as if for later use. She glanced briefly over her shoulder, catching sight of me, and smiling shyly.

"I believe that if I am hungry, so are you," she said, reaching for her knife and flaying the fish open.

I nodded, joining her side and watching her gently slice the fresh, pink flesh of the fish from its needle-sharp bones. She set the spine and bones with the fish heads, turning and rinsing the fish briefly to rid of any excess scales.

"... May I be of assistance?" I couldn't help but ask, uncomfortable with my current state of being a spectator, rather than a participant.

She didn't at first respond, picking away at some loose bones in the flesh. However, she cocked her head and said, "Wash your hands and then bring me my pan from the shelf."

I did as I was told, rinsing my hands and grabbing the pan. I soon found myself scooping small amounts of pig fat into the pan, the fire beneath melting the white paste down into a salty, clear oil. Soon, the fish was frying away in the fat, with some sort of grain bubbling away in another pan. I found myself a little startled by the girl's skill set. Not many young women of her age and class had such skills. Normally they belonged to caretakers, who were paid for providing the skill set to a family. I wondered if that was why she chose to dress in such plain clothes.

Curious, I asked, "Where you ever a governess? Or some sort of maid?"

She laughed, stirring the bubbling grain and adding some sort of red spice to it, "Oh, no. I never worked for a family, save my own... All of my experience in cooking and chores comes from my mother. She taught me how to be independent of anyone, from the witty governess to the helpful maid."

"... Mr. Pierce said that he had met you-," I started.

Her cold look silenced me, hissing, "James met me when I was sweeping the front steps of my family home. He had come inquiring for a tutor, only to find that the supposed maid who greeted him at the front door was said tutor."

I blinked, caught off guard by the response, "But you said that you were never-,"

"A governess, yes. But I was a tutor. I was educated well-enough, developing a pretty impressive skill set in writing. So much so that I had been hired, on some occasions, to aid those who needed their journals reviewed or edited. It is uncommon for a young woman, especially of my age, to have such a role in the writing world. Men, of course, dominate that spectrum, so you may see why I tried to keep my aid exclusive and private."

I agreed with that. While there were some very talented women writers in our time, there had yet to be some proper recognition of their art. Usually their success was met with scorn. With a sigh, I gave her an apologetic smile, her hard look melting away into that of contentedness. I did not press her more information as of yet, allowing her cook and serve our meal in silence. She lead me to a small nook secluded under a bay window, which confused me due to the fact that Holmes and I actually dined at a dinner table in our sitting room.

"Due to these circumstances, I had to make due with what was provided to me in this house," she admitted, setting down our hot meal of fish and grains.

"It's charming," I responded, "At least the table is not marked with chemical stains... Or burns..." I murmured the last bit, settling down across from her.

The young woman gave me a strange look at that, "Burns?"

"Our table at Baker Street is not only used for dining, but also for Holmes to dabble away at his chemical experiments. Sometimes they go awry, and the poor table takes the brunt of it... It drives Mrs. Hudson mad sometimes."

To my delight, she laughed at that, sliding my plate over, "That sounds wonderful. Mr. Holmes truly knows how to utilize his resources."

"Well, at least there's a sulfur stain to examine during a silent breakfast," I chuckled.

Grinning, we both tucked into the evening meal. We didn't speak much, allowing a peaceful silence to descend over us. I will admit that her meal was delicious, rivaling that of Mrs. Hudson, with an exotic quality I couldn't yet explain. After finishing, I helped her clean up, only to resettle in the nook with my notebook in hand, pen poised over the paper.

"I believe Mr. Holmes finished with my interview today," she responded curtly, eying my pen.

"I know... But any minor details that you failed to mention during the interview would help a lot."

"In what way?" she inquired, this time leaning forward with a bit of interest, "Don't tell me that Mr. Holmes can derive any conclusion from even the smallest detail."

And there it was. By making her interest clear, she had given me an opening to trap her curiosity and by extorting it, get some information out of her. Refusing to lose this opportunity, I allowed myself to lean toward her, making sure my blue eyes were trained on her with mild interest. Her open expression of curiosity did not change, though her breath hitched just a bit when our eyes met.

Smiling, I nodded, resuming our conversation, "I am saying that, Miss Wright. Holmes is a consulting the detective, the first of his kind. He is a genius when it comes to deduction. He can take the smallest sample of tobacco and tell you when it was smoked, what brand it was, how long it took to burn and even, with enough smaller details in the surrounding area, find the person who smoked the cigar."

"That's... That's..." the girl gaped.

"Impossible?" I offered.

"Fantastic!" she cried, "And here I thought that James had duped some fool into finding me. No wonder Mr. Holmes knows that James is lying."

Something had changed in the room then. Her eyes sparkled with an childish mirth and I had to remind myself that Miss Wright was just a girl, seventeen yes, but still a child. I was startled that such a brave creature could suddenly become a curious, ecstatic child before my eyes. I found my original discomfort in her presence suddenly lighten. It was such a joy to see her nervousness, her fear ad anxiety, slip away. My heart almost swelled at the sight, something caught aflame, and I had no way of explaining what at the time.

Cocking an eyebrow, I tapped gently on my notebook, "Surely James understands that no one can dupe the great Sherlock Holmes?" I felt my lip curl into a sneer, "While Holmes may not be a man fond of sentimentality, it is his passion for logic that allows him to be the best in London."

"You speak of him as if you are his best friend," she giggled.

My cheeks flushed at the comment. Her eyes widened at the sight of my pink cheeks and I watched with inner horror as a sly smirk curled on her lips. I tried to quickly compose myself, clearing my throat and looking away towards the kitchen window.

Deepening my voice, I feigned boredom, as if I had heard that comment before, "Oh, yes. Holmes and I are good friends. I accompany him on his cases and help when I can."

"But surely, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't need companionship. You said he wasn't one to be fond of sentimentality. Isn't nursing companionship a sentimentality?"

"I..." struggling, I croaked, "Why yes. That is why I said good friends, not best friends," I felt my cheeks cool at this. I had avoided her inquiry.

But the girl was not deterred. Miss Wright raised a disbelieving eyebrow, "And yet here you are, watching a seventeen year old girl, who is as defenseless as a newborn babe... And he trusts you enough to leave you alone with said girl. Surely Mr. Holmes understands that, while he may not be the pursuer of intimacy, that a red-blooded Englishman such as yourself wouldn't be tempted by carnal desires."

"Holmes understands that I would not risk your, or even my reputation, for such things," I countered.

"That, or you're not interested in me," here she smirked, "Maybe your interests are elsewhere... Maybe..." she smirked, "Maybe you're already spoken for."

I felt my jaw drop at that comment. Never in my life had a young woman twisted her words so well, and imply so much in a simple sentence. I felt the weight of her words slap me clear across the face. This girl knew how to evade my charms. I had been attempting to bait her by giving her information of my companion, hoping that she would be convinced of his greatness and trust to give me some additional detail on the case. Yet, I had not yet honed my skills in charming women, and I would never do so in my entire life. This strange creature, as young as she was, already knew the steps to the dance I was playing at. She was a move ahead, getting more information out of me and throwing me for a loop with her strange comments and questions. And her implications where downright embarrassing.

"Y-You..." I growled, a playful tone lacing itself somewhere in there, "You are no lady..."

Miss Wright's eyes flashed, "Haven't you heard?" she leaned back, smirking, "I'm a whore."

~o~

The next week, Holmes had yet to appear. While I had not spent this time in bad company, I couldn't help but feel anxious that my friend had yet to arrive. I had risen early that day, peeking out the window every fifteen minutes for the past two hours. I heard the patter of Miss Wright kitchen, followed by the gentle clink of cups. The next moment I was eating away at her biscuit tin, eying the alley where Holmes and I had appeared not even seven days ago. As for my companion, the girl was not what I had expected. Our initial meting had not placed her in a good light, so terrified of discovery had she been. But once she understood that I was of no danger to her, she relaxed and allowed herself to open up.

"... Why a whore?" I couldn't help but ask, my sweet biscuit souring at the sound of that gross word.

Miss Wright sighed, "Those were the accusations that James fed the doctors at the Ward."

"But you have not-," I pressed.

"No. Not even with James," Miss Wright's gaze joined mine at the window, but she seemed more focused on the boats in the distant waters, "I am surprised that Mr. Holmes did not ask how I escaped... Nor explain how he found me."

That comment tore my gaze from the window. Placing my full attention on the girl, I asked, "Would you mind telling me? How you escaped the Ward, that is."

While it is not unusual for patients to escape the charge of their physicians, it was quite difficult. Especially when it came to those patients considered to be mentally unstable. I had wondered how the girl had escaped, without some sort of hysteria entering the papers.

"James paid them off," she murmured, "To keep me locked up, and to keep them quiet about my incarceration."

"Holmes discovered paperwork that indicated you had been admitted."

"I guess James did not pay them enough... Regardless, I resided there for a week," she paused to sip her tea, "... I doubt Mr. Holmes would believe me when I tell him how I escaped..."

"I must disagree. He would take great interest... Holmes himself has a knack for slipping out of the most dangerous situations," I chuckled, "So much so that I fear he has a strange delight in it."

Miss Wright did not smile at that. Her gaze was locked on one of the boats in the water. She was staring at something, but when I searched for the source, I found that only the spinning mast caught my attention. I wished to continue the conversation, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Startled, Miss Wright immediately disappeared into the kitchen. I gathered myself up, placing my confusion on hold before heading to the door. Opening it, I was greeted by the haggard face of Sherlock Holmes.

"Holmes!" I cried, quickly bringing him inside, "I thought you would be disguised-,"

"Unnecessary, seeing as this case has almost resolved itself," Holmes grumbled, handing me his coat before shuffling off into the sitting room.

Our young charge returned from the kitchen, handing my friend a fresh cup of tea and a smile. He did not immediately respond, taking pains to actually sit down. This worried me greatly, for Holmes was still young and in his prime. Such cautious, painful movements were concerning to my physician mind.

"What has happened?" I asked, sitting down in front of my friend and gently squeezing his knee.

The great detective looked up, sighing, "Nothing remarkable..."

"Well..." I sat up little straighter, "Maybe some new information has help your case?"

"Maybe... But then again, the new evidence just confirms some of the rumors I've scrounged up."

I felt myself deflate a little. Holmes was not responding in any excited manner. He was morose, nursing his tea and allowing himself to nod off here and there.

"Miss Wright has informed me that Mr. Pierced paid to have her locked up," I offered.

Holmes snorted, "Yes, and it was Mr. White who became her physician in charge."

I gasped at that, the new information making me lean a little on his knee, "How... How did you-?"

"I take it you have not been able to get the girl to confess her means of escape?" Holmes quipped, setting his tea aside and leaning even further back into the chair.

I blinked, absolutely confounded by my friend's change of subject, "W-Why, yes. I thought maybe you could-,"

"It was Mr. Wright who gave me the address to this residence..." Holmes interrupted, jumping into the case, "Recall how Mr. Pierce left us his calling card? I paid a visit to the young man's assumed residence. Imagine my surprise to stumble upon a local surgery, with an elderly physician running the place. Interrogating him revealed that he was in fact Mr. White, and further, had been indulging a far darker side of our lying client... Mr. White confirmed that it was he who exchanged money with Mr. Pierce to keep the girl locked up."

"So... Mr. Pierce gave you a false lead?"

Holmes sighed, "Attempted to, Watson. I speculate that he may have done so in order to have his acquaintance report my movements. Instead, the man betrayed him and aided my investigation greatly... So, in this case, on the contrary. Mr. Pierce has doomed himself."

"Did you know Miss Wright was here, initially?"

"To be honest, no. I was expecting Mr. Pierce to open the door in order to continue my interrogation. I wanted to know what this darker side the two men indulged in. It may help in finding out why he had his fiance locked away. Instead, the girl was here, safe and sound. From there..." he trailed off, looking off towards the window.

"What? What happened?"

Holmes sighed, "I tracked down Mr. Pierce, only to discover that the very same Ward he admitted his fiance had become his own cell... He had been admitted when he was discovered wandering the alleys, raving about some dark force wanting to consume him and calling out for Miss Wright..." now, Holmes turned his head towards the kitchen.

Miss Wright was peering around the corner, twisting her apron in her hands. This was peculiar, since I had assumed the girl had opened up to us over the course of the week. Well, she had at least opened up to me. She refused to make eye-contact with Holmes, keeping her gaze trained to the window. She eyes were fixed on the little boat still floating out in the waters, even after the others had been pulled in. I assumed she was showing her complete refusal to speak to us, so I turned back to my friend, shaking his knee to catch his attention.

"So what now, Holmes? If Mr. Pierce is locked away, then Miss Wright should be safe to... Well, either continue living here or moving away?"

Holmes sighed, "To be honest, Watson, that will be up to her. But, not before I find out how-,"

He was interrupted by an explosion of screaming from the dock. Startled, Holmes bolted upwards, his tea cup crashing to the ground. I, on the other hand, took the screaming as a call for action. Without hesitation, I pulled my revolver from my breast pocket and charged at the door. I heard Holmes shout, but ignored him. Army training had kicked in and I was protecting this home. I cannot explain why I felt this sudden need to protect, how my stomach had hardened and my heart grew warm with a monstrous fury. I cannot recall how Holmes grabbed my hand, allowing me to drag him into the street.

What I do recall, however, was the girl. How she peeked out from the kitchen, her eyes as wide as a doe's and equally as frightened.

"Stay put, lil' one-," I grumbled, exiting the home.

The sight that greeted us was horrific. The little boat from earlier, the one Miss Wright could not keep her eyes off of, had finally been docked. A small crowd had gathered around the scene, parting slightly when I pushed past. Someone caught sight of my revolver and suddenly, a rumor started to course through the crowd. A whisper of police, a police man and his comrade, had arrived on the scene. Holmes and I, of course, did not wield such titles, but the rumor allowed us to reach him without incident.

As it may have been assumed, the body of an elderly man lay sprawled on the dock. He was lying face down, a single eye trained upwards to the sky. I went ahead and pocketed my revolver, turning my gaze to scour the crowd for any suspicious faces. Holmes, having collected himself, immediately bent down and began to examine the body. I knew those sharp, hawk-like eyes were taking in every detail, from the man's slouchy cheeks to the single strand of dog hair trapped in the fibers of his lapel. He called for me seconds later, asking me to help him turn the body. I did so, stepping back with a grimace. The crowd around us gasped, taking a large step back.

While face down, Holmes could not initially deduce what had killed the man. He had, at first, speculated that he had been stabbed, due to the trickle of blood pooling around the man's belly. However, when on his back, it was made clear that stabbing was not the cause of death.

To our shared horror and disgust, a large, gaping hole had been dug into the man's once fat belly. Pieces of organs were missing, and those that were not had been shredded to nothing but minced meat. It was as if some animal had dug its muzzle into the flesh, devouring as much as it could, before leaving the body. Holmes was muttering, casting glances about him, searching for an answer, any answer.

"Holmes, what do you need?" I growled, eying the now impatient crowd.

Holmes stood up, addressing the crowd, "Where was he found?"

No one from the crowd initially answered. However, it was a young fisherman, no more than twenty years old, who stepped forward to volunteer information.

"He was found here, sir."

"Explain," Holmes pressed.

The young man shrugged, "No one saw where he came from, just found him suddenly laying on the dock like that."

Holmes addressed the crowd, "Did anyone see him come off the boat? Or being taken from the boat? Surely, with such a horrific injury, someone saw something?"

No one answered. Even the young man, who had stepped back into the crowd, shook his head. Holmes turned, re-examining the boy.

"Watson... We must investigate the boat," Holmes ordered, "Quickly, before the police arrive."

I nodded, barking the order for a constable to be contacted, before joining Holmes in his investigation. I wondered why Holmes had asked if the man had come from the boat, only to have the answer appear before my very eyes. The pool of blood from the man's belly was originally a trail that led back to the little boat. We climbed into it, discovering that is was not any type of fishing or steamboat. It was quite too small, already moaning under our combined weight. Holmes ignored the metal groans, following the trail up towards bow. He stopped in mid-step, reaching back and gently stopping me by placing a hand to my chest.

"The body... Did he have injuries on his hands? Blood?" Holmes asked.

I strained through my past memories, searching, "No... No, I do not think so."

Holmes nodded, "Then, he did not fight for his life, Watson."

"What? How can that be?"

Holmes stepped aside, allowing me a better view of the front of the boat. To my horror, I could see where the blood had originated from. It started against one of the rails of the boat, as if the man had been leaning against it at the time of the attack. There were no marks of bloody hands, or signs of a struggle. Not even a footstep or paw print to indicate that someone else had been on the boat. My mind went to suicide, only to realize that there was not weapon for the man to cut into his belly into and again, I reinforced the fact that the man had not a single drop of blood upon his pudgy hands. Floored, my mind even thought of the man being consumed from the inside out, but again, where was the beast he had given birth to?

Neither of us had the answer. Holmes sighed, running a hand through his hair, before taking mine and leading me back off the boat. The crowd had shrunk by the time we returned back to the body. A sheet had been placed over it, a constable eying us as we approached.

"What were you two doing on that boat?" he snapped, a hand resting on his pistol.

Holmes easily replied, "I believe Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard will have to ask me that question, and in person, if I might add," he then walked away, pulling me back into Miss Wright's hiding place.

Upon entry, Holmes turned, seeing Miss Wright step out from the kitchen. He gave her a cold smile, his eyes shadowed over with millions upon millions of questions.

"You may take delight in the fact that Mr. White is dead," he announced coldly, shocking both myself and the young woman, "Also," he continued, with a much lighter tone, "Would you mind providing some extra blankets in Watson's room? I would greatly like to turn in for the day now."


	4. Chapter Four: The Space Between Sheets

**Chapter Four: Empty Space Between Shared Sheets**

The evening closed with me recounting the gruesome scene at the docks to Miss Wright. At first, I was hesitant in sharing this information, so young and frail she seemed at the moment. Her eyes still had that wide, doe-like complexion and she shook terribly. But, when Holmes requested the blankets, something in her mind seemed to snap into place. The idea of being useful, even in such a small manner, allowed her to escape her fear, if only briefly. However, as Holmes ascended the steps to my, well now our, room, she shot me a pleading look. She didn't want me to leave her, not yet. Nodding, I followed her down into the basement, where she collected some clean sheets and pillows from a trunk.

"... W-What..." she started, only to choke on her question.

I gently reached for her, taking her hand into mine, "You really don't-,"

"But, I do," she croaked, "Please, tell me."

So, I told her. I left no detail out, just as she desired. While she did not voice this desire, I knew our shared love in writing demanded it. I suspect that we writer's can't help but soak in the world around us, to taste and smell, touch and listen to, see everything. If not, we take from other memories, fatten the flat ones, get creative and indulge in that creativity.

She listened intently, picking out the needed sheets slowly, giving me time to retell the event. She released my hand only when I was done, replacing it with a pillow for Holmes. I expected her to cry, to scream, to faint or even collapse into a nervous, weeping wreck. Instead, her eyes checked over her shoulder briefly, before locking on me with purpose.

"Dr. Watson, please. I must beg of you-," she whispered urgently, "Don't let Him... Don't let Him eat me."

I blinked, startled by the cryptic plea. She did not repeat herself, nor delve into more detail. All she did was continue to stare, pressing the sheets closer to her bosom.

"I... My dear, Mr. Pierce is-," I started to reassure her.

"No. No, not him," she said, "Not him..." she then stood, leading me back upstairs.

At our rooms, she went over to the bed, beginning to set it up for Holmes and I. I saw Holmes stiffen as she did this, shooting me a strange glance. The girl had assumed we would be sharing the bed. While not uncommon in some of our cases, Holmes and I only shared space if it was required, and even then we never spoke of it. The room was big enough that one of us could sleep on the floor, or even retire downstairs and sleep in one of the armchairs. However, I stopped Holmes from interrupting her work.

"Watson," he murmured, refusing to meet my eye, "Surely you can-,"

"Holmes, the girl has had a trying day. We all have. Allow her this small victory, a sense of usefulness. If you need me to retire to another space later tonight, I will do so. And only when she is safely asleep."

"I would not ask you to leave, Watson," Holmes whispered, smiling when the girl completed her task.

She smiled back, some of her anxiety having ebbed with the work. She bid us goodnight, exiting the room seconds later.

"Then I do not see a problem," I answered him once the girl was out of earshot, "It is nothing new."

He sighed, turning away and slipping into the WC that joined the room. I took this opportunity to strip out of my clothes and into something more comfortable. Upon Holmes' return, he gratefully took my extra night shirt, for he had neglected to bring his own. Together, we sat on the bed, neither one speaking for a great while.

"Holmes..." I whispered, "Holmes, please tell me... What is this case?"

Holmes did not answer at first. Slowly, he crawled over from his side of the bed, resting a hand on my shoulder. He squeezed, trying to send me some type of message. The only thing I could do was reach up and hold that hand in place, feeling my own anxiety slowly begin surface.

"I... Watson, I must be honest... I do not know," Holmes admitted after a while, moving a bit closer, "I thought-,"

"What?" I turned, facing him directly, "Please, tell me. I am confused and know not what to do. I feel as if I am going mad with all this mystery!"

My friend chuckled at that, his hand moving down and pressing against my chest, "Now, Watson. You know full well you are in control of your senses... When all that commotion started, you faced it as I expected, like an army man going into battle," his eyes met mine and he held me there, his fingers tapping gently against my beating heart, "You were far more in control than I."

I wanted to protest this. The need to protect was strong, yes, but it was Holmes who unraveled the mystery of the eaten man. Yet, he had not fully solved the death and my mind, being greedy for knowledge, focused on this.

"Holmes, what happened to Mr. White?"

The great sleuth grinned, "Isn't it obvious? He died."

I felt a nervous smile wiggle my mustache, "That is not what I meant, you sod. Come now, tell me, what have you deduced?"

Holmes pulled away, leaning back into a nest of pillows and sighing, "Well... It's obvious that Mr. White was controlling the boat, for it was he that steered it back to shore, disembarked, and then collapsed face forward on the dock..."

"But the wound... The blood... And his hands?"

"From the evidence on that boat, Mr. White has sustained the injury by the front rail. Something had... Consumed... His stomach... And he did not fight. There were no signs of a struggle. Neither did he fall to his knees, nor reach down and try to cover the wound. It is as if... He took it. He stood and allowed whatever it was to... Eat him."

I gaped at this horrible deduction, "Not even... Not even suicide?" I pleaded.

"No... There was no weapon. And again, his hands were clean."

I nodded, but couldn't help but ask, "Then... What... What did it, Holmes? What ate him?"

"I have no idea, Watson."

~o~

That night I dreamt of an albatross. I dreamt of her, the girl, with the white bird hanging around her neck. Surrounding her were the dried husks of Mr. Pierce, Mr. White with his gaping wound. Holmes was on his knees, heaving on the deck. I ran to him, only to fall back as snakes, live wriggling snakes, splattered and squirmed over the dry wood.

The sun was high in the sky, baking us, ocean water steaming and boiling. Yet, there was no light. The sky was dark, not a cloud in sight. To my surprise, I could see the moon trailing across, orbiting closer and closer to the sun. I watched as it eclipsed, the two celestial lovers casting us in complete darkness. I felt my eyes broil in my head, a scream tearing from my throat as they melted into oblivion. Blinded, I reached out for something, anything to hold onto.

My hands sunk into something warm, sticky, with mats of fur swimming in the mess. A wet something slid out, licking my arms, savoring my flesh. The stench then hit me, the stench of a thousand rotting bodies. Blood, the rusty, acidic smell of blood burned my nostrils and I threw up, vomit falling all over my chest. I was not allowed to focus on this mess, for the boat suddenly tipped and I fell, fell into the boiling water.

My flesh burned. My bones creaked and snapped. I felt myself being cooked, cooked in Misery.

Still trapped, I dared to try and open my eyes. To my relief, they were intact. Bleary eyed, I found myself looking about my rooms, recalling that I had been asleep only moments before. The tightness in my chest elevated, my visions were nothing more than a dream.

That is, until I looked towards the door. I felt the tightness return, vomit rose to my throat, and Fear, pure Fear held me in place.

At the doorway stood a dark figure. It's acidic, bulging green eyes looking about. I could make out, in the dim gas-light, a pair of bat-like ears stretching high towards the ceiling. Teeth, yellow, chipped teeth peeked out from its salivating maw. Yet, to my horror, I realized that is was not saliva that dripped on the floor. It was rot. An ooze, a mixture of blood and fur and pieces of flesh dripped, splattered about. It did not step into the room, its rattling breath merely filling it with the stench of the dead.

I wanted to move. I wanted to cry out. I fought against my fear, pushing stupidly into my bravery. Something broke in my mind and I found myself shifting, if only slightly. I heard the bed creak as my foot slipped out from between the covers.

When I recall that moment, I regret having been such a stupid young man. I wanted to fight the beast, to make it go away, it was wrong. It was wrong. Instead, I realize now, I should have let it be. If I had done so, maybe I wouldn't have brought that curse upon me.

But the deed was done. My one movement caught the beast's attention. Its head snapped to me, those terrible eyes locking on mine. A white-hot, burning pain exploded at the back of my head and to my increasing terror, laughter bloomed. No, it did not bloom, it pierced through me, reverberating about in my skull, filling every one of my thoughts. The laughter was high, screeching, a cackle and a moan, a scream and wail and the chime of bells and the crash of waves. It ate away at me and made my eyes roll back into my head.

Only then did I finally scream.

… I found myself, curled in the fetal position, on the WC floor the next day. Slowly, I lifted my head, my vision a bit blurry and unfocused. That movement was as far as I got, for a sharp pain at the back of my head had me curled back up tight, holding my aching skull. After several agonizing seconds, the pain dulled down to an annoying throb, from which I could attempt to function around. Again, I lifted my head, this time my vision a bit sharper, taking in the sight of the metal tub and toilet.

It would be a minute or so before I managed to crawl over to the tub and sit up, leaning against it for balance. I looked around me, trying to figure out how I got on here, or even why. No answer came and I found myself disturbed by this. Never have I had episodes of dissociation, or hallucinations for that matter. At the time, my mind had pushed aside my terrible nightmares, denying their existence or just playing them off as nightmares. I did not dwell on these foreshadows, focusing more on my predicament and wondering how I would excuse it.

After a beat, I forced myself to my feet, stumbling a bit before exiting the WC. To my relief, the bedroom was empty, the bed having been made probably a few hours before. With a sigh, I collapsed on the fresh sheets.

I'm not sure how long I lay there. It was well past noon when I finally dashed off the remnants of drowsiness and left my bed. The time I spent dozing in the bed went into the recuperation of my mind, or so I thought of it at the time. Such a young fool I was, to not note that my mind was repressing my all-too-real experience. Looking back, I understood why my mind would dissociate and push these thoughts back. Such horrors are traumatizing and can easily, quite easily, drive a man into madness. Regardless, I pressed on, ignoring the dark thoughts collecting at the back of my mind and heading downstairs.

"Holmes?" I called out, searching for my friend.

"In the kitchen, Watson!" came the reply.

I entered, immediately being pulled into the cozy breakfast nook. A huge plate of ham and eggs was served to me, as well as some hot tea and to my exotic delight, coffee. Miss Wright giggled at my exclamation of delight upon seeing the hot drink, Holmes chuckling into his drink.

"I am sorry, Watson, for not waking you earlier. I assumed that with yesterdays events, you would have appreciated a little more rest... Of course, Ms. Wright has made you a delicious breakfast, even though it is well past breakfast time."

My response was to nod my head, taking another large bite of food.

"Watson has a sentimental attachment to food and drink," Holmes teased, watching me dig into my food with little bravado, "As you may have noticed..."

Miss Wright responded by squeezing Holmes' shoulder, "Says the man who can't help but croon over cigarette ash..." she flounced away before Holmes could respond, laughing all the while.

Holmes paused over his drink, startled by her tease. Slowly, his grey eyes turned to meet mine and I couldn't help but shrug. Something in my expression gave my mirth away though, because soon enough, his eyes sparkled with mischief, a long hand reaching out and pinching my stuffed cheek.

"Watson! You have been giving out confidential information about me!" he cried, "You are not helping in this case at all!"

I winced at the pinch, "Holmes! I did it in jest!"

He ignored my protest, grasping my chin and forcing me to look at him, "This isn't the first time you've ruined a case with your bumbling antics!"

I wrestled away from him, smirking, "As if being on your hands and knees helped in anyway. Only the bawds get results from that, Holmes. The best you can get is a hungry look from Inspector Lestrade."

"Envious, Watson? I do put on quite a show," Holmes rounded.

"Ha! I'm not wrong when I say you are already spoken for, Holmes!"

"To what, Logic?" Holmes sneered.

"No," Miss Wright chirped, "To Dr. Watson, of course."

I couldn't help it, I burst out with a roar of laughter. The girl always knew when to step in and embarrass us. But having spent a little bit longer with her, and learning a little more about her sense of humor, I knew what to expect from her. Holmes, on the other hand, did not. His cheeks suddenly flushed a bright pink, those grey eyes suddenly shadowed with embarrassment. Now, in my earlier tales, I would have never admitted that Sherlock Holmes was ever embarrassed during the time we spent together. However, this is a lie. Sherlock Holmes felt human emotions just as deeply, if not more so, as any of us. This moment is proof, for he refused to meet Miss Wright's eye could only give me shy glances in-between our spurts of mirth.

"Well... I... I will admit I prefer that over Inspector Lestrade any day..." Holmes grumbled.

"Ah, my dear friend. Lestrade wouldn't know what to do with you if he even had the chance," I quipped, earning more laughter from Miss Wright and Holmes refusing to meet my eye this time.

"... True..." Holmes finally admitted, his pink cheeks toning down a bit, "I doubt he will be able to wrap his mind around this case..."

The earlier mirth died a quick death then, as if Holmes had blown out the single candle of laughter. Ms. Wright immediately pursed her lips, her face becoming pale with fear. As for myself, I felt a bit of discomfort rest on my breast. It was suddenly a heavy burden, this case, where the clues seemed to lead absolutely nowhere.

"I suppose... We must begin... At the source," Holmes murmured, pushing aside his half-eaten plate of fruit and pulling out his pipe, "As I mentioned before, Watson, Mr. Pierce has been institutionalized... I believe that Lestrade can help us get access to him and maybe..."

"Get more information for this case," I breathed, my eyes wide with delight.

"Correct. Finish your food and we shall be off to pay a visit to the good Inspector."

We soon found ourselves at Scotland Yard, Holmes demanding to see Inspector Lestrade as he was stepping out of our cab. The constables quickly went to fetch the good Inspector, but not without shooting Holmes some irritable looks. We entered the building, Lestrade motioning us into his office. I happily took a seat, noting that our friend looked quite pale, my happiness diminishing at the sight. He looked rattier than usual and a bit malnourished. I wished to express concern over his health, but knew that like Holmes, Lestrade did not take kindly at having a doctor throw diagnoses and advice at him. Fighting off my concern, I focused my gaze on Holmes, who had taken the liberty to fish about the Inspector's many documents.

"Is this about that dock case?" Lestrade asked, cutting right to the point.

Holmes responded by throwing a document over his shoulder and grunting. Lestrade turned to me, an eyebrow raised. With a sigh, I went ahead and translated my companion's neanderthal response.

"Yes, Inspector. Holmes wishes to get access to St. Bart's, specifically their asylum."

"St. Bart's? I figured you'd be more interested in going to the morgue. Don't you wish to examine the body in more detail, Holmes?" Lestrade asked.

Holmes lifted his head, grumbling, "There will be no new evidence to find, Inspector. Further, I do not trust your methods of having the body transported across the city. A plethora of hair, dust and mud has no doubt ruined the evidence."

I watched the color rise in Lestrade's cheeks, "My men are professionals when it comes to-,"

Before Lestrade's temper could break, Holmes turned and slapped down a file on the Inspector's desk. Startled, Lestrade could only splutter and look down at the file in confusion. Holmes then took his seat, giving our friend a warm smile.

"Now, now, Inspector. There's no need for anger. I merely meant that..." Holmes trailed off, contemplating his next words, "Well... That I've collected all the evidence I needed for this case and... I am glad your men have responsibly moved the body with little altercation."

My mustache wiggled a bit in laughter at that. Holmes, while not a sentimental man, did have a way of manipulating the people around him. In this case, he excused his comment, making sure to add a vague compliment in order to cool Lestrade's anger. As such, the good Inspector's cheeks paled down once more and he went ahead and examined the file Holmes had provided. Lestrade spent a good while sifting through the file, muttering every now and then and shooting Holmes questioning glances. With a sigh, he finally put the file down and locked eyes with my companion.

"I thought Mr. Pierce was an unwise source of information?"

Holmes nodded, "When it comes to the disappearance of Miss Wright, yes. However, when it comes to his relation with Mr. White, and the dark games they played, I believe madness may have loosened his tongue."

"... You wish to have access to this man, then?"

"As soon as possible," came Holmes' prompt reply.

Lestrade stared at Holmes a little while longer, as if trying to sweat some answers out of him. The celebrated sleuth, however, only looked away, looking up at the ceiling with a smirk on his face. I audibly sighed at this. Holmes always seemed to be trying to wriggle under Lestrade's skin, while the poor Inspector struggled to compete against Holmes' genius. Regardless, it caused both men to butt heads like complete children. My sigh did, however, break Lestrade's glare and he coughed, reaching around for a pen.

"Dr. Watson," Lestrade grumbled, "If you would be so kind as to inform Jones that I wish to speak to him..."

A little offended by the dismissal, I responded by curtly nodding and leaving the office. I asked the nearest constable where I could find Jones, only to be directed to the holding cells below Scotland Yard. Gathering my nerves, I descended into the criminal pit.

To my surprise, most of the cells were empty. Here and there a few suspects were curled up in a corner, snoring the afternoon away. I walked by them, trying not to capture anyone's attention. I caught sight of Jones patrolling the end of the hallway. We exchanged greetings, Jones giving me a warm smile when I informed him of Lestrade's orders.

"Good ol' Inspector Lestrade. He knows I get tired of walking these cells," he sighed, "I will say, however, that some of the suspects help pass the time with their stories."

"Oh? In what way?" I inquired, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.

"Well..." Jones motioned over to one of the cells, "We got a foreigner in there... Says he's from some South American country... Says he sees the future or something..." the constable chuckled, "I'd say he's just mad... I'll go ahead and send Peters down here while I speak to the Inspector."

With that, Jones left me alone with the few criminals of the day. I could have easily followed the man back up to Lestrade's office but chose to linger a bit longer. My presence did not, as of yet, seem welcomed. I decided, out of respect to Lestrade's paranoia, to speak with the prisoner Jones had mentioned before.

Approaching the cell, I noticed a man, a little older than myself, sitting quietly on a prison bench. He greeted me with a warm smile, something I was not expecting in the slightest. I politely returned my own smile, though I fear it seemed a bit forced, for he chuckled at the sight of it.

"I believe that, even in the ugliest of circumstances, one still needs to remember their manners," he said,a s if trying to explain our awkward situation, "Ah, but look at me... I should take my own advice... Good afternoon, sir. My name is Imez Juarez... A pleasure to meet you."

I did not need to hear his foreign name to know that he was not of this part of the world. His accent, while understandable, was thick with squeaky e's and o's. While I had little experience in meeting someone from the northern hemisphere, it did not take me much to be convinced that this man did hail from there. His warm smile returned, but this time it seemed a little more welcoming. Without hesitation, I approached the cell door, watching the man take to his feet and meet me there.

Looking back, I cannot believe that I had allowed myself to get so close to such a dangerous figure. I suppose at the time, I was not thinking clearly. My mind had been so wrapped up in the Wright case that I did not, for a second, think of my well-being. As such, I found myself face to face with the man. He was my height, but a bit more spindly and wiry in comparison to my build, soldier build. In the gas light, his skin looked like taunt caramel, with some markings etched here and there. I, at first, made the ridiculous assumption that he was some type of naval man, since it was uncommon for a citizen of my time to have those markings. But, on closer inspection, I realized that the markings were not of anchors or sea gods. They looked more like scars, as if the skin had split open on several occasions and had yet to fully heal.

"And who, may I ask... Am I speaking to?" he whispered, bright green eyes locking on mine.

My tongue, rather than shrivel up with fear, loosened with intrigue, "John... Doctor John W-Watson..."

"Doctor Watson..." I watched his tongue roll the "r", shivering a little when that same tongue darted out to lick his upper lip, "A pleasure to meet you."

"... What..." I swallowed, suddenly unnerved by a strange warmth curling in my belly, "What are those markings on your arms?"

The man grinned, stepping back and extending his arms towards me, "I am not from here, as you may have noted... These are the markings of my people..."

"You belong to a tribe?" I asked.

He chuckled, shaking his head, "No, my good doctor. I belonged to a group of men who... Dabbled in... Unsavory activities..." he hissed the last part, a single finger coming down and tracing one of the marks lovingly, "It is said activities that landed me in this cell..."

I wanted to ask what these activities were. But, before I could even string the thought, the man approached the cell again, this time pressing his body tight against the bars. In the flickering lamplight, it seemed like his entire being was oozing through the gaps, dribbling down as a mix of rotten muck. I tried to register this strange hallucination, but the foreigner grabbed my hand, pulling me straight into the bars.

"Mr. Juarez, please-," I protested, now having the common sense to fear for my life.

"Call me Imez, John..." he purred, his lips pushing forward and gently brushing my cheek.

I gasped the this taboo action, feeling terror as a tremor of sexual excitement shot down my spine and tickled my groin. I assumed the crimes this man had committed with his group of friends: sodomy, illicit acts of homosexuality, adultery and so forth. While I was not a man to judge others for their sexual tastes, I understood that such tastes could land one in prison. I did not agree with the punishment, but my opinion did not make the law at the time anymore false or weak. As such, I understood now what Juarez meant by his unsavory activities. Not wishing to get caught in these circumstances, for even I knew that the law could be cruel and unjust, I tried to pull away.

Juarez, though wiry, exerted quite a bit of strength and kept me in place. He said nothing, but the expression on his face pulled mine forward. I know not what took over my mind, but I found myself wanting to tempt the man in the cell. The way his green eyes shined, as if he knew how to tap into my mind, unearth my deepest desires, and easily grant them. Rereading this, my thought process seems to sporadic, as if even now I have fallen under some strange haze and cannot, for the life of me, connect my words in some sort of coherent manner.

I suppose that is what happens when one is charmed by Death.

Before I knew it, Mr. Juarez and I were mere inches from one another. I could feel his breath tickling my mustache, almost having my bottom lip resting between his parted pair. It was then that I made the mistake of looking into his eyes.

A painful explosion occurred in the back of my mind and I heard, for the third time, the cruel laugh from before. I briefly hallucinated and watched in horror as his handsome face morphed into that of a rotting dog head. I tried to cry out, but as quickly as the vision came, it disappeared. My terror was suddenly replaced with hot arousal and I groaned, the switch of emotions far too much for my simple mind. I realized that my eyes were closed and my lips were pressed against a softer pair. Juarez had managed to capture me in a fierce kiss, and I happily obliged to be a participant. My heart, which had been racing with fear, was now slamming into my ribcage with hot desire. I suddenly wanted to rip the bars off and grab this man, who I met mere moments before, and commit every act of adultery my feeble mind could come up with.

To my future relief, such wanton actions were not to occur. I heard footsteps at the stairs and forced myself away from the man, but not before feeling his tongue swipe across my bottom lip. I gasped, stumbling back and giving this man, this strange man with strange powers, a bewildered look. He only grinned, those eyes flashing, before stepping back and resuming his seat on the bench. I heard voices join the footsteps and quickly composed myself, willing away my arousal.

"Ah, Watson! I have managed to convince Lestrade to allow us to interrogate Mr. Pierce!" Holmes announced, squeezing Lestrade's shoulder in gratitude.

I responded a bit late to this, having most of my attention still directed at Juarez, "I... That's..." I turned, giving Holmes a forced smile, "That's great, Holmes. Thank you, Inspector. This will... Certainly help with the case."

Lestrade merely nodded, handing over Mr. Pierce's file. The smile on Holmes' face, however, dropped. His grey eyes swept over me, taking in every detail. To any normal person, I may have passed acceptably as nothing more than a man made nervous by the hostile environment of the cells. Holmes, however, was not a normal person, and his genius mind no doubt took in my disheveled hair, my bruised lips, the nervous glances at Juarez, and my half-aroused state curled in my trousers. To my horror, Holmes glanced at Juarez. The foreigner did not make any attempt to acknowledge Holmes, keeping his gaze trained on me, a wicked smile on his face.

Swallowing, I tried to break Holmes' train of thought, "Uh... Holmes... Would it not be best... To... To go see Mr. Pierce as soon as possible?"

The great detective only responded by pivoting sharply on his heel and going straight upstairs. Lestrade watched him go, giving me a quizzical look. I merely shrugged, rushing up after him. I did not, however, catch sight of the black ooze slipping through the bars, or hear the snarl of a dog as it escaped into the London streets.


	5. Chapter Five: Mad Man Mutterings

**Chapter Five: The Mutterings of a Mad Man**

Holmes said little to me on the journey to Bart's. My paranoid side strongly believed that this was because of my strange behavior at the Scotland Yard cells. My more hopeful side tried to explain it away as my friend being more preoccupied with the case. Regardless, I kept quiet, scribbling away at my journal in the hopes that by keeping busy, I would not be tempted to press the issue. With the both of us ignoring one another, the trip to Bart's was short, the cabbie being kind enough to linger while we pursued our case. Holmes made an immediate dash to the hospital doors, rushing past a few scholars and medical students. I followed, apologizing profusely to a scandalized nurse and upset physician. Grumbling a bit at Holmes' rudeness, I managed to make my upstairs to the mental ward of Bart's.

In many cases, insane patients were not housed away in these hospital wards, but either kept at home or allowed to perish in cells. It is a sad thought, to consider that many of these souls spent their last days rotting away in sheer insanity and terrible loneliness. In the case of Mr. Pierce, the young man had been fortunate enough to have had some type of connection, for he had been put up in a room until funding ran out.

Holmes had entered the room long before me, sitting in a visitor chair and eying the sleeping man. I whispered my intentions to the nurse, who nodded and allowed me to join my companion and the patient. Mr. Pierce stirred briefly, making me realize that he had not been slumbering, but had closed his eyes to the world. Holmes was bent forward, listening to the soft mumbles that came from the young man's pale, parted lips.

"Hol-," I started.

The sleuth lifted a single hand, silencing me. I held my tongue, joining Holmes' side. The young man's piercing blue eyes locked on mine briefly and to my surprise, a flicker of recognition passed over them. It was only then that Mr. Pierce looked at Holmes, sat up, and grinned.

"Mr. Pierce," Holmes started, "How are you?"

The young man gave Holmes a brief, bewildered look, before answering, "Well enough, considering the circumstances."

"So, you are aware of your current location?"

Mr. Pierce nodded, "The belly of the beast."

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, only to stop and exchange a look of surprise with me. I could only shrug in response, being equally as startled by this strange answer. Holmes pursed his lips, as if try to mull out a follow-up question to this answer. Having found non, he chose to shoot me a sharp nod, giving me permission to take over the conversation.

"Mr. Pierce..." I paused, considering my next question and how it would be perceived by an ill mind, "... I... Do you recall how you got into the belly of the beast?"

The young man's eyes dulled for a moment, "Same as you I suppose... He ate me."

Again, Holmes and I exchanged a look, but Holmes encouraged me to continue.

"Mr. Pierce... Can you tell me what happened before... Before He ate you?"

"Married... I was going to marry her..." he smiled briefly, only to frown and grit his teeth, "But she belonged to another... That bastard... He didn't tell me... But why would he?" the young man reached out, grasping my forearm, "He promised me peace... I took it... He ate me."

Holmes made a soft noise of impatience. While there were many times that the celebrated sleuth would have to deal with vague stories, lies and misleading clues, Holmes never learned to tolerate the behavior. On the contrary, it made him more ornary over the years, much to his client's fear and confusion. In this case, I did not want Holmes to begin demanding facts. Mr. Pierce was not in his right mind to deal with my companion's temper. I gently reached out and covered Holmes' clenched fist, rubbing the taunt tendons with my thumb in a reassuring manner. Holmes stiffened, before sighing and relaxing his hand, understanding my desire for patience on his part. I went ahead and resumed control over our conversation with Mr. Pierce.

"How did He find you, Mr. Pierce?" I asked.

The mad man let out a bark-like laugh, "Find me?! Me?! No, no sir, I went looking for him... She, she had him, you see... And I wanted... I wanted my due and..." he paused, his eyes blown-wide with fear, "I didn't know... How could I have known that... Monstrosity... What He is... What..."

Mr. Pierce suddenly let out a pathetic wail, before becoming a crumpled mess of sobs and wet, choking noises. Instinctively I reached out to him, cradling the young man in my arms. Through his sobs, we made out squeaky  
>apologies for Miss Wright, but no other information regarding the agent of his madness. Holmes gave a sigh and stood up, walking out of the room while muttering under his breath. I couldn't help but glare at the man, his cold attitude was something I had yet to become accustomed to. Regardless, I gently coaxed Mr. Pierce back into his pillows, reassuring him that Miss Wright would receive his apologies from me. When I finally extracted myself from the sobbing man, I was hustled out by the kindly nurse, who informed me that Holmes had already headed downstairs to the cab.<p>

The cabbie had insisted on waiting for me, much to my delight, since Holmes had a tendency to rush off at a moment's notice. Holmes shot me a side-ways glance, before turning and staring out the cab window. I settled in with my notes, pondering the strange conversation with our mad client.

"... I would not put too much thought into it, Watson," Holmes grunted, "It is a waste on your part. I suspected that this would lead to a dead end."

I sighed, "Even so, Holmes... There are many unanswered questions..."

"Watson, there is nothing to it. We were hired to find out where Miss Wright had run off too. She is safe and sound in her little shack. I failed to mention this before, but Mr. Pierce actually had the girl moved by Mr. White. Of course, the poor girl did not know why she was being moved, but her fear was justified; Mr. Pierce was planning some type of harm against her. Now that Mr. Pierce is locked away in Bart's, I do not think he will pose a threat to our young charge."

"... What about Mr. White, Holmes? Surely his death-," I started.

"Watson, if Lestrade requests that I look into the man's death, I will do so. At this time, I have no interest and prefer to leave the case to our able-bodied authorities at Scotland Yard," he finished, making it a point to give me a daring glare.

I understood that he wished to end the conversation there, but I found myself troubled by Holmes' sudden dismissal of the case. It is not as if Holmes had not abandoned cases in the past. Certain cases would become tedious to Holmes, and after tying up the loose strings and sending a telegram of instructions to Lestrade in order to capture the culprit, the amateur detective would return home and start searching for a new case. My fear that Miss Wright's case was to be abandoned was becoming increasingly true as I watched the cabbie take a turn towards Baker Street, rather than in the direction of Miss Wright's home.

Noticing my alarm, Holmes sighed, "I will write to Miss Wright about this decision and give her some resources so that she lives comfortably-,"

"Holmes, please, I do not think it would be wise to leave the-," I started to protest.

"If it appeases you, Watson, I will even ask my brother Mycroft to seek work for her. Surely a fine grammar teacher is needed-,"

At the sound of Mycroft's name, I snapped my journal shut. My anger rose, for Holmes dared to shirk the case of the girl over to his eldest brother. And while I highly respected Mycroft Holmes, I did not feel the man had the proper manner to handle such a lady. Holmes raised an eyebrow at my passive-aggressive action, but when he saw me raise my hand to stop the cabbie, his eyes blew wide in surprise.

"While you may be able to set this case aside as easily as the _Times, _Holmes, I cannot," I pushed the cab door open, making my way out.

"My dear Watson! This is no longer our case!" Holmes cried.

"No, Holmes," I sighed, exiting the cab, "This may no longer your case, but it is still mine," and with that, I shut the cab door and made my way down to Miss Wright's home.

~o~

I arrived at Miss Wright's home around supper time, and while I tried to put on a cheery demeanor for the young lady, my bright client caught a whiff of my true, morose emotions. With a respectful silence, she fed me, prepared my lodging upstairs and began the wash of my past attires. I tried to protest, but found that to do so would be in vain. It wasn't so much that the girl enjoyed keeping busy and caring, but rather, she craved it. I did not wish to break this distraction, specifically with my current dark mood. It was only when I took a seat in the sitting room for a smoke that she finally approached me.

"Dr. Watson, will Mr. Holmes be joining us tonight?" she asked, though I could hear in her sad tone that she knew the answer.

"I am afraid not, my dear," I responded, taking a light drag of my ship, "With Mr. Pierce in the Ward, Holmes deems you safe, sound and no longer in need of his services."

The young woman nodded, twisting the bow of her gown nervously, "If... If that is the case... Then why-?"

"While the great Sherlock Holmes may say you are safe, Miss Wright, I disagree," I felt my voice begin to tremble with rising anger, "He is ignoring an gruesome death, in connection with your case, and the fact that your ex-fiance had you moved and for what? What reason did he have?" I stood, taking the last drag of my cigarette before stubbing it out, "Just because Holmes wishes to ignore these strange circumstances does not mean I will. Abandoning a client when one is needed the most... Honestly..."

The young woman listened to my rant, her eyes blown wide with fear. She had managed to take a step back from me, as if attempting to avoid me from striking her. While I believed my anger to be controlled at this time, from the outside, Miss Wright obviously perceived it as an explosion of violent emotions. The more I learned of her panicked, anxious state, the more she reminded me of a skittish doe in the meadow. I knew that there was a part of her who could tease and joke around, but this time, I was facing prey and to my astonishment, I found myself suddenly hungry for more of that fear.

Shaking my head of this ridiculous feeling, I gently reached out and patted her shoulder. She did no relax, but her eyes were not as wide or as panicked. Apologizing for my anger, I suggested an early night and that in the morning, we could discuss her case in more detail.

That night, I dreamed I was knelt over the body of a woman. Her skin was the most delicious color of cocoa, freckles dusting her thighs as if the sun itself passionately kissed them there into existence. I gazed at her full breasts, where two dollops of chocolate bon-bons peaked towards the sky. Every inch of her was a dessert, every inch spoke of sweetness, of warmth. She beckoned my mouth and starving, I lowered my head to begin my feast. My mouth wrapped around a dusky bon-bon, licked and nibbled the tip. I could hear her moans, but they were distant, as if she were three rooms away. My body alighted at the sound, burned when her body shifted beneath me, trembled when her hands came up to run through my hair.

She guided me lower, my tongue lapping and licking at her skin, nipping and kissing every piece of skin she'd allow me to linger on. Her legs where closed to me, but I ran my index finger down the seam of her sex. To my delight, it parted with ease, dew drops of her excitement trickling down. I followed those drops, licking them up and groaning at the salty, sweet taste. I likened it to salted-caramel, or my sweet tooth perceived it as such. Again, her far away moans reached me and I took the plunge, my tongue sliding and suckling on her tiny gumdrop of pleasure. Her thighs closed around my head, keeping me in place, as I lapped away at that bundle of nerves. Cupping one of her thighs, I opened her up again, this time dipping my tongue into that opening of utter delight. I heard her cry out, as if startled, but to my surprise, it wasn't so feminine as the first time. I dipped my tongue again, and again she cried out, but this time I was certain the voice was no longer female.

Lifting my head, I found myself staring at the hardened shaft of a very well-endowed man. My tongue was now sliding against the base of the shaft, a single bead of pre-cum leaking out and flowing down to my mouth. Startled, I lifted my head fully to see who my lover was.

I had never seen the woman's face, but laying before me was the exotic man, Imez Juarez. His eyes were closed, head thrown back in pleasure. My hunger continued to assault me, begging me to return to my task. But I fought it off, rearing back and making a sound of shock. Juarez hummed, then opened his eyes, acid green boring into my blue. A smirk curled on his lips and he beckoned me upwards. Instead, I scooted back, shaking my head, mouthing questions that refused to unstick from my throat.

"Forgive me," he murmured, sitting up and taking a hold of his erection, "I forget to keep my form when such a talented mouth is upon me..." he cocked his head, examining my speechless form, "I am not incorrect in knowledge that you enjoy the pleasure of both sexes. However, if you prefer, I can always revert back to the woman of before," and to my amazement, his body morphed into the exotic woman.

When she spoke, her voice was far-away again, "She is quiet beautiful... But, maybe you would prefer..." he shifted again.

An inhuman sound escaped me as Sherlock Holmes sat before me. My eyes swept over him, pale and lean, with his muscles well-defined. My gaze focused on the bicep that tensed and relaxed, only to slide down and watch as the great detective stroked himself before me. It was so perfect, this image, right down to the birthmark Holmes had just behind his right ear. My hunger, which I had successfully ignored, returned with the force of ten and I leaned forward to grab at my companion, having completely forgotten that he was merely a mirage.

"Aren't you ashamed, Watson," Holmes suddenly hissed, increasing the hardness of his stroke, "Aren't you ashamed to see me this way? To desire me this way?"

I shook my head, "It is human... It is natural..." my face sunk into the crook of his neck, licking the protruding collarbone, "I have known... Of my desires... And I accept them as they are... Ever since I was a young soldier..." here I bit Holmes' collarbone, hearing him gasp in delighted surprise.

"No... This is... This is a dream..." Holmes whimpered, his stroke increasing in speed as I trailed kisses across his neck, "You would never say these things... Not to me... This is shameful, this is..." he sobbed, suddenly releasing his erection and falling back away from me.

I watched Holmes stare at me in horror, touching the bite-mark on his neck. He made a sad, whimpering noise, gritting his teeth in self-hatred. I did not speak, but pushed Holmes back and cupped his pale thigh, taking his abused member into my mouth. Holmes cried out, bucking his hips slightly as I swirled my tongue over the crown of his sex. Pre-cum flowed and I suckled it up, sliding more and more of Holmes into my mouth. I consumed every inch and Holmes held me there, his hand gripping my head, forcing me to feed. I had to bob my head only once for Holmes to climax, warm liquid filling my belly seconds later. I drank every drop, Holmes crying out my name, only to gasp it, and then fall into painful sobs and groans. I gave another swallow, only to find myself gagging at the taste and smell of copper. A chunk of something slid down my throat and settled like a stone in my belly.

Alarmed by the change in sensations, I looked up again. The scream that came from my mouth was inhuman. Miss Wright lay before me, her belly gaping open, chunks of organs strewn about and half-consumed. I threw myself away, only to slip on the sheets that had pooled with blood. Miss Wright could only groan as I fell to the floor, her hand trying in vain to tuck her small intestine back into her body. Looking down at myself, I saw that my hands were covered in her blood, my whole front oozed and I realized what the stone was in my now full belly. I tried to run, only to find myself stopping short before a mirror.

What stared back was a gigantic hound, all encompassing in his rot and reek. I felt a pain in the back of my head, where high-pitched laughter bloomed. Through the screams that seemed to erupt from all around me, through the rotting darkness that began to consume me, through the demonic laughter that made my eyes roll to the back of my head, I heard it speak.

"... I t... Doe s no... good... t o …. l ie..."


End file.
